whose portrait's on the mantle?

JORDAN PICKFORD

It had been a long day of travelling, where there had been delay after delay, and you'd arrived back at your apartment much later than either of you had expected. And you were both starving.

With your suitcases abandoned in the entryway, Jordan flopped down on the sofa — his muscular body falling back into the crease of the well-placed cushions. He let out a loud noise of exhaustion, something between a yawn and a sigh. He reaches out his long arms and gently tugs on your hands, coaxing you down onto the sofa with him.

Your body lands against his and instantly relaxes against the soft comfort of his muscles, as his arm stretches out across the cusioned back of the sofa. His feet land on the coffee table, much to your annoyance, and you give him a gentle nudge with your knee. Jordan just grumbles in response.

He pulls his phone out from the pocket of his sweatpants and instantly finds the Uber Eats app. He scrolls for a few moments, his thumb hovering over a few of his go-to restaurants, before he eventually finds his favourite takeway and adds the largest, greasiest doner kebab pizza with all the trimmings, and a curry sauce as the base. He continues scrolling through the menu.

"Want a side of cheesy onion rings?" he asks nonchalantly.

You hum in response a little absent-minded. You watch as he adds two of the cheesy onion rings, then reach over to scroll through the menu. You add your usual order, then can't help but hover over the checkout button. You pull your own phone out and begin totting up the calories in your order, the numbers displayed in black and white in front of you. Then, you sigh, and delete the side of cheesy onion rings.

Jordan watches you with a cautious eye.

Your thumb hovers over the delete button on your usual order as you press your lips together. You consider deleting your order and looking for something with less calories. Eventually, the self-conscious devil on your shoulder provails and you remove your order from the tab.

Jordan gives you a questioning look, but you don't acknowledge him. Instead, you say, "I'll just grab something light from the kitchen."

He turns his head to look at you properly, an unimpressed look contorting his features. He blinks for a moment, then takes his phone back from you. He re-adds your order exactly ho eyou had manipulated it, including the cheesy onions rings.

"Jordan!" you huff at him and swipe at his arm.

He just rolls his eyes at you and confirms the order. "It's on it's way now," he says.

You shake your head at him disapprovingly. "I'll just have to go to the gym first thing in the morning," you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

"No, you won't," he responds, before letting his arm drop off the cushioned back of the sofa and land on your shoulder. He pulls you in closer, your body pressing against his burly chest tightly, but in such a loving way that only Jordan could muster, and he places a gentle kiss against your temple — his stubble grazing your skin. "Be fine if you miss a day."

You just rested your head against his chin and let out a soft breath; a silent thank you wrapped up in a subtle gesture.

DECLAN RICE

A long, drawn-out sigh left your lips as you stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the bedroom. You watched yourself in the pristine reflection and couldn't help the uncomfortable feeling of disappointment wash through you. You stood straight on, then turned to the side, watching yourself with an intense gaze. Your shoulders sagged as you came to the inevitable conclusion that you'd put on weight.

You looked at yourself in the outfit that you'd imagined in your head — the light wash mom jeans and the cream lace-patterned corset that clung to your mid-section. Another huff of air passed your lips as you noticed the squishy section of your stomach that peeked out from the structured boning of the corset top. You poked it gently with your finger, feeling utterly deflated.

You turned to the opposite side and examined your side profile. You felt disheartened, like you'd let yourself go.

The sound of the en-suite bathroom door opening and closing caught your attention. Declan walked into the room in just his towel, his bare feet padding casually across the carpet. Your eyes scanned over his body — his chiselled jawline, his perfectly-carved abs, his sculpted muscles. Then, your gaze travelled back to the ornate-framed mirror and your reflection, and the pitt in your stomach grew.

Declan could sense a shift in your demeanour, a change in the tide. That, and the way your usually bright eyes dimmed with saddness, and the corners of your lips downturned subtly. He came up behind you and placed his gentle hands on your shoulders. "What's up, love?" he asks with so much care in his tone, as the palms of his hands brush over the lengths of your arms.

You let out another melancholic breath, before finally admitting, "I've put on weight."

Declan gives you an understanding look through the mirror before leaning down to place a soft kiss on your cheek. He knew you were self-conscious about your weight, especially when you had a microscope on your body at all times with the media. He felt guilty; you only received that kind fo attention because you were with him.

His lips grazed over the flushed skin of your cheek, down along your jawline, and along the long line of your neck. His hands brushed along your arms tenderly, then continued along the curves of your silhouette. "I think you look gorgeous—" he compliments sincerely, his words punctuated by gentle kisses, before continuing, "—and beautiful, and sexy." His lips continued along the ridge of your collarbone. "Especially in this outfit."

As conscious of the changes to your body as you were, you couldn't help the way the corners of your lips twitched upwards slightly and the warm fuzz erupted in your stomach at the attention he gave you.

"Thank you," you whispered at his encouragement.

JOHN STONES

There was a certain kind of embarassment that had twisted your features into something downturned; it was something that resembled mortification almost. You stared at your phone screen, at the candid photographs taken of you and your boyfriend, John, on the beach in Mykonos. They'd been posted, without your knowledge, to a gossip blog on Instagram.

You swiped your thumb, scrolling through the carousel of photographs of you in your bikini, you in your towel, you in your sheer cover up, and they were unflattering to say the least. The photographs were candid — taken whilst you were laughing hysterically, eating lunch, and whilst you were adjusting your bikini straps. On top of that, the angles were less thna favourable, the lighting wasn't on your side, and the filters that had been applied had on accentuated everything.

Then, you made the mistake of opening the comment section. It was flooded with negative comments about your body, your weight, and there were plenty of cruel jokes about how you were caught eating the gyros. You scrunched your nose up, completely unhappy with the post and the comments, as you felt your heart heavy in your chest. You'd never been one to care what others thought of you, and you'd never really been one to obsess over your weight — however, the level of scrutiny you had felt under the carousel of unflattering pictures had left you with a sickly feeling swirling in your stomach.

John immediately knew something was wrong the second he stepped into the room, just by the look on your face. He watched as you focused intently on your phone screen, eyebrows furrowed together in concentration and your lips moving as you silently read the comments out to yourself.

"What's up?" he asked, his voice laced with concern as he nudged your foot with his knee. You shifted slightly and he flopped down on the sofa next to you, an iced energy drink in his hand.

With a displeased huff, you turned your phone around to face him — showing him the unflattering photos of yourself in your bikini. "Why didn't you tell me that's what I looked like?" you asked him, a genuineness to your voice.

John's features twist in confusion. There's a genuine, sincere puzzlement etched into his stubble-lined features as he examines the photos in front of him. He swipes his thumb across the carousel, but you can tell from the expression on his face that he doesn't see anything wrong with the photos. "What?" he finally responds.

"I look huge," you respond, giving him a look that implies that was obvious.

His face twists once more — however, this time it's more like disbelief. "You don't look huge," he responds, almost instinctively, "you look like you always do."

"I always look like that?" you immediately latch on to what he has said — a slight panic in your voice.

"No—" he quickly tries to save himself, "—no. That's not what I meant." His slate-like eyes search for yours as he straightens his posture, turning himself to face you. "I meant that you look as good as you usually do."

You give him a look of disbelief through thick, dark lashes.

"I mean—" he says, his tone now serious, "—there's nothing wrong with how you look in the photos. You look fine— beautiful. You look beautiful. You don't look huge at all." He lets a beat pass as his eyes examine you, searching for any hint of distrust in your features. "You know I love you in that bikini." The palms of his hands cupped your cheeks tenderly and he placed a soft but brief kiss against your lips. "You're beautiful," he repeated in a more gentle voice this time.

You let out a deep exhale but stay quiet. The photographs and comments had clearly gotten to you, but you didn't want to let on that it had, so you just accepted his reponse.

However, John knew that the post had gotten under your skin, and badly. The self-consciousness radiated off you in waves with the way that you pulled the sleeves of his over-sized training jacket down over your hands and used it to hide your body, and the way that you positioned yourself in ways that wouldn't accentuate your curves any further than they already were.

smiling from across the pitch, you watch him dance around with the trophy clutches close to his chest. he’d sworn if he closed his eyes the weight in his hands wouldn’t be real.

he could feel the heat of your gaze on his side. you stood tucked among your family members clapping as each player lifted the trophy.

“come, come,” your father, Mikel, gestured for you all to gather around him and the trophy.

and who other to hand it off than your boyfriend.

smiling as he sauntered over, declan passed the trophy into your fathers hands. cutting directly in between your family members, his palm grips your shoulder with a quick pinch before jogging off.

MOMENT #2

you sit cross legged on the pool lounge chair watching a YouTube video on crotchet while simultaneously doing so. the task was mostly to occupy you from the heat, but also to keep you from staring at your boyfriends tanned body floating around the pool.

flicking a bit of water in the direction of where you sat, you look up to find him leaning against the ledge of the pool, “what you makin’ there, love?”

holding up the small green unstuffed dinosaur outline he can feel his smile widen, “make me one?”

“I’ll think about it.” you respond. turning back to the video you feel the splash of water again coming from where he stands.

looking up from the video and animal once more, you give him an annoyed look.

“I love you.” he mouths before ducking under the water and swimming off.

MOMENT #3

“I feel like there’s some cheating going on right here.” Martin gestures to the lump of you and Declan, his cards held tight to his chest, “you know the point of poker is an individual game, right?”

scoffing at Martin’s accusations, you lay down your cards, “well I fold anyway.”

“strategic move.” your father coughs out.

declan chips in and leans back against his seat. his cards folded in his arms are upright letting you sneak at the full house he held. pretending to sneeze, declan knew his chip in was successful.

nudging your thigh with his, you take the initiative and throw your legs over into his lap and watch Declan win.

MOMENT #4

he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. which more often than not, was the case, but tonight? in the floor length gown, he couldn’t get enough of you.

“I think eye fucking the bosses daughter is worthy of jail time.”

the voice of his teammate does nothing and doesn’t make his eyes leave trailing your body up and down.

feeling the heat of him, you migrate towards him— which so happened to be by the drink table. he follows your every move and practically moves with the sway of your hips like a hypnotic.

“you can’t stare at me like that.” you whisper as you whisk a glance of champagne and down the liquid.

“well then show up in a trash bag next time.”

giving him a pointed look he raises his hands defensively. taking a tentative look around the room, he quickly pecks his lips to your cheek, “show up naked to my house tonight.”

“you’re so lucky my father can’t hear you.”

MOMENT #5 — the unlucky moment

the phone call comes in at midnight. you had just laid down and curled up into the sheets when his name flickered across the small device in your hand.

instantly swiping to answer you’re met with the screaming cheers and bodies clumped around each other pulsing with excitement. you knew what this meant. the premier league trophy was finally home.

propping yourself upright you watch declan flip the camera around to his face. he was red from screaming and cheering, but he wandered off to a quiet hallway for a brief second to have a moment with you.

you heard the cheers from your living room before you could even speak to Declan. the thudding of Mikel arteta’s feet against the wooden stairs grew louder before he burst into the bedroom.

“we won the trophy!”

your father ran towards your bed side and pressed a kiss to your head, but before he pulled away he caught sight of who was on the other end of your device.

“is that my declan?” he paused, the color of excitement washing away from his face and seriousness took over. you could feel your heart nearly skip a beat as you watched for any signs of anger on your fathers face.

“actually, I’m her declan.”

but that didn’t stop him from inching closer towards you.

the small of your back prickles with heat ever so slightly. you don’t dare move from the circle of medical team, you just stand utterly still and pray that not a single soul felt you jump under his touch.

you slightly turn your head in the direction erling was moving, and just with what you could see out of your peripheral, he had moved down the tunnel and tossed his blue jersey into the stands to be collected by a happy fan.

—

“you can’t touch me like that.” you say with a slam of his flat door. kicking off your shoes, you watch his whole body turn on the leather couch in your direction. his blueish green eyes electrify with excitement, and he moves with urgency you’d never expected.

“I can touch you how I want. you’re mine.”

“not in front of them.” you remind him with a knowing look that makes his smile falter, “you can have me here, but you cannot have me beyond these walls.”

the sinking sensation in his stomach nearly caused the dinner to lurch up his throat. pushing himself away from you, he pivots on his heel, “I told you that I’m not a half ass guy. when I get what I want it’s all mine.”

rolling your eyes, you follow him up the winding stairs and towards the open bedroom door. flicking on his over head light, erling grimaced and flicked the lights back off.

“do you understand me?” erling asks while peeling off his tight black athletic shirt and tossing it into the mountain of dirty laundry.

laying down on his bed, you prop yourself up onto your elbows and watch him undress. his fingers stop at the band of his boxers, his eyebrow cocked at you, “I’m not asking again.”

“yes, I understand you.”

“so next time, when I touch you, don’t bitch at me.” he says this in a deep tone that came from his chest. it rumbled low in your ears. not hiding from his growling order, you prop your chest up; unafraid of him.

you watch him crawl over your body, his warm palms wrap around your elbows and knock you down, sprawled out, onto the plush mattress, “if I want the whole world to know doctor y/n is mine, I’ll fuck you on that pitch.”

his hard cock rocks against your lower abdomen and vagina. the friction of your clothes against one another sends your back arching upward. he grinds his hips against yours again, firmer and harder, like as if to permanently leave his mark.

“you’ll never have another one like me.” his voice rumbles through your earlobe, and like a disease spreads, his words did just that. they filled up every particle and grey matter inside you.

his palms shove your hips down into the mattress, his rhythm makes it impossible to stay still as he rocks you deep almost becoming one with the sheets of the bed.

you could see stars dancing across your vision. your lower body itched from the chafing, but the pleasure was the only thing fighting to keep you from stopping. your finger nails dug deep into the tanned skin of his collarbone, attempting to keep the heat of his body close to you.

you wanted some sort of feeling of him beyond the throbbing sensation between your legs. you pried with your might to keep him close, but erling wasn’t letting you take what you wanted. this was a selfish desire and he finished that strong in his boxers leaving you full and aching.

climbing off your body, he left you cold and alone against the thick blankets. peering up off the bed, you look at him under your heavy eyelashes, you watch him remove his soaking wet boxers.

“you better finish me off.” your voice comes out shaky rather than determined and even like it always was. irritation replaced the once pleasantries you had towards him.

“I don’t have to,” he responds, turning towards you now, he gives you that shit eating grin that has you tossing a pillow at his chest, “and you know why I don’t have to?” he asks rhetorically.